


again, february

by ascience



Category: Football RPF, Men's Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: German National Team, M/M, Retirement, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-23 12:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10719729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/pseuds/ascience
Summary: Philipp didn’t plan on almost hitting Micha with his car after seeing him for the first time in years, but he can see how maybe that’s a little hard to believe.Or: “Tell me,” Micha says without hello, “how does one get rid of you?”





	again, february

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redandgold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/gifts).



> The title is vaguely inspired by the OK KID song [‘Es ist wieder Februar’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2m2H6DiLEI).  
> Variations of the word ‘retirement’ feature in this fic 15 times. Soft Per/Arne vibes. I HATE MICHA’S DIALECT. There, I said it.

If the DFB reception wasn’t in Munich, Philipp would probably just have declined. This way, however, it’s hard to come up with a good excuse that doesn’t sound like one - and Philipp has to admit those meetings aren’t all bad.

Arne, Miro, Hitz and a number of others also said they’d come, and Philipp decided he was willing to endure a couple of boring speeches to see some familiar faces.

“Because you miss football,” Thomas had said in a sing-song voice and Philipp had rolled his eyes, but there was some truth to it. Retirement was relaxing, but also dull.

So Philipp RSVPs and dutifully puts the DFB pin on his lapel when the day comes.

The suit he is wearing is uncomfortable, but apparently a fitting suit is supposed to pinch a little. It’s nonsense, but after all these years Philipp still doesn’t know enough about suits to argue against it.

So sue him, he misses the regular feeling of a kit and the squeeze of the armband.

Philipp is tugging at the tight collar of his shirt when he turns his car around the corner of the parking lot. The traffic to the reception was slow so Philipp is caught off-guard when suddenly a figure appears in front of the car.

Philipp slams the brakes more quickly than he can think. There is no impact, but the person outside still cries out, stumbles and falls.

With a racing heartbeat, Philipp unclips his seat belt and hurries to step out of the car and up to them.

The man is wearing an expensive suit and sitting on the asphalt ground, bent over to hold his foot. He’s grimacing in pain, and Philipp almost mirrors it when he recognizes who he’s facing.

Ballack. Micha.

“You,” Philipp says, eyebrows raised, the accident wiped from his mind for a second. To say it’s been some time would be a massive understatement. He won’t be surprised if they miss the “Hello, how have you been?” chit-chat in this conversation.

“No,” Micha says at almost the same time and comically tries to get away from Philipp. He doesn’t really manage to crawl because his foot seems to be hurting moderately and his suit is restricting him, but it’s the idea that counts.

Philipp stops walking towards Micha and in response Micha also stops moving, looking at Philipp suspiciously.

“This is -” Philipp starts, but is interrupted.

“Unfortunate,” Micha hisses irritatedly. He throws a look left and right between the big shot cars, but nobody else is listening in to their meeting. Most of the other invited people have probably already arrived and neither of them brought a plus one.

“This is how low you’ve dropped? Assassination in a badly lit parking lot? A little late.”

Philipp is almost stunned enough to say sorry, but comes to his senses before he can do anything he might regret.

“What are you doing here?” he asks instead, stupidly.

“Same as you, I assume.” Micha says in annoyance. “I _was_ captain of the national team once, you know.”

Philipp takes a deep breath and counts to five, then he continues to move up to Micha and leans down. This time Micha doesn’t try to flee.

“Show me your foot. Do you think you’ve broken something?” Philipp says, pauses and adds, “Just for the record, I didn’t even hit you.”

“Well, shit, do you want me to be grateful for that?” Micha replies, but surprisingly does remove his shoe and rolls down his sock without another argument. Maybe this is the point where it dawns on Philipp how surreal this situation is. He can’t remember the last time he exchanged more than two words with Micha without a newspaper to mediate between them. Micha’s farewell match, probably, which - Jesus. That was 2013.

In some other timeline they could have been good friends, like they almost used to be for some time.

In this one, Philipp realised that you have to move people who are standing in your way, nothing personal, sorry.

Micha’s ankle seems slightly swollen and there’s a nasty bruise on it, but there’s not much Philipp can do with that information anyway. Micha isn’t dying, that much is certain.

“It’s not broken or torn,” Micha offers slowly. “I know what that feels like.”

They engage in a staring match for a moment, Micha looking at Philipp like he personally tore Micha’s ligament way back when. Philipp straightens his back and opens the first button of his collar.

“I’m going to call an ambulance,” he decides, but of course Micha also has an opinion about that.

“Like hell you will. Just move on,” Micha says, nodding his head towards the exit.

“You can’t walk,” Philipp states what seems obvious. “People are going to come through here.”

He feels guilty about the accident while at the same time having an extremely vivid fantasy of turning back time to hit the gas instead of the brakes. Either way it’s childish to keep ignoring each other.

“I’m fine, it’s just a bad bruise,” Micha says through gritted teeth, as he draws his sock and shoe back on. Philipp watches with a raised eyebrow as he struggles to get up.

“At least let me get some help from the hotel then.”

No response. Philipp sighs and martyr-like crouches down next to Micha, who looks up frowning.

He throws Micha’s arm over his shoulder and levers him up. Micha says nothing, but also barely does any of the work and just lets Philipp prop him up like a dead weight. It’s twice as awkward because Micha is so much taller than him, it’s uncomfortably close, and the weight of his arm is sweaty and heavy across the pinching collar of Philipp’s suit.

As Philipp drags Micha towards the exit of the parking lot, he realises his car is still standing in the middle of the driveway, but it’s too late to drop Micha now after the progress they’ve made. It’s gonna have to be valet parking.

They stumble their way to the door and down the stairway, and Micha slowly starts moving his legs and feet properly by himself again.

It feels like an eternity during which Philipp sweats through his shirt entirely, but they end up in front of a door with frosted glass panels, the door that opens into the hotel where the reception is held.

Micha straightens himself and draws a hand through his curls that were probably neatly gelled when he left the house. Now, not so much, and Philipp resists the reflex to brush the strands back into order.

He brushes down the wrinkles in his own suit instead and adjusts his lapel pin, before he asks, “How does your foot feel?”

Micha carefully moves his foot and puts weight on it. It doesn’t look one hundred percent steady, but Philipp has seen people play ninety minutes with much, much worse.

Micha gives a small nod, probably more to himself than anything else, and looks at Philipp. There is a significance in the look that Philipp can’t quite place and suddenly he hopes they’ll serve alcohol at the reception.

“Thanks,” Micha says through his teeth, pushes through the door and vanishes into the waiting crowd in the hotel hall as quickly as he appeared in the parking lot.

If this is just a dream with some weird subconcious metaphor to make him come to terms with his past sins, Philipp thinks dryly, now would be a good time to wake up.

He counts to twenty before he follows into the hotel, and he might have waited even longer if he hadn’t heard other people walk on the stairs above him.

 

\--

 

Inside, a waiter offers him a glass of the complimentary sparkling wine. Philipp downs it and reaches for a second one with a sour smile.

He almost chokes when someone suddenly claps him on the back.

“Hey, Philipp,” Per greets him, laughing about Philipp’s sputtering. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. How are you?”

“I - actually, uh. I kind of have,” Philipp replies and coughs. “Did you know Michael was going to come?”

Per shrugs. “No, I haven’t seen him yet. But it makes sense.”

“Hm,” Philipp hums. “He only just arrived.”

Per throws a look at the people standing next to the buffet (Micha not among them, Philipp checked), then Per starts carefully, “Anything you-”

“I hit him with my car,” Philipp cuts him off flippantly, a premature defensiveness in his voice. Per’s eyebrows rise in reply. “Okay, I _almost_ hit him, didn’t actually get him. But he hurt his foot a bit.”

“Hold on, you lost me there,” Per says and takes the glass of sparkling wine from Philipp’s hands. “Is this what a couple of months of retirement do to you? You drive over Micha? I thought your feud was done.”

“I didn’t _mean_ to drive into him, _he_ showed up in front of _my_ car when I arrived at the parking lot. He managed to fall and injure himself and then had the audacity to refuse my help.” Philipp huffs. “I dragged him down here and then he just disappeared.”

He can tell how amused Per is about the rant, probably because Philipp pretends he has 100% put the whole Micha thing behind himself and Per knows he 100% hasn’t still.

“So he’s fine and he can walk. Relax, Philipp,” Per says and puts up his hands in a calming motion. “Whatever happened to being the bigger person?”

Philipp blankly stares up at Per.

“Oh, sorry, is that offensive?” Per grins, and Philipp gets on his tip-toes to whack his head. Anybody else would probably have been found dead after a joke like that.

Arne, mirroring the other attendees with the glass of wine in his hand and the pin on the lapel of his suit, breaks from the buffet crowd and walks up to them. “Hey, if it isn’t Tall and Short! What’s up?”

Well, most people would have been found dead.

“Good evening!” Per pulls Arne into a tight hug and says, “Philipp hit Micha with his car.”

Arne stops in his motion to hug Philipp as well and frowns. “Wait, what?”

“He’s fine,” Philipp says emphatically. “I didn’t mean to hit him. And I didn’t even actually do it! Christ.”

“ _You’re_ the reason he was limping?” Arne whistles flatly. “This reception is already so worth it.”

A photographer interrupts them then, asking them to pose for a picture and Philipp can see Arne grinning like a loon out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t hold out for a fist fight,” Philipp warns Arne sarcastically after the photographer is gone. “Not going to happen.”

“Whatever you say.”

Philipp snorts. He hates Arne.

He does catch a glimpse of Micha again, because you can only evade someone for so long in a group that’s not much more than a hundred people.

During the second speech of the evening, one about awful changes that someone at FIFA thought to be the best idea since the invention of the ball, Philipp spots the back of Micha’s head five rows in front of him in the conference hall. Micha is whispering to his seatmate and then laughs and Philipp wonders why he fucking cares about that at all.

Philipp makes it to speech four (including one musical intermission by a pitiful university student), before he leans over to Arne who’s sitting next to him.

“Do you have his phone number?” he asks.

Arne chuckles, then his smile drops as he realises that Philipp isn’t joking. “ _Fips._ ”

“I’m serious. I just want to apologize, is all.”

“And how far back to you intend to go with the apologies?”

“Shut up,” Philipp says. “Give me his number or I’m going to do it via public tweet.”

Arne hands Philipp his unlocked phone without another word, eyes pointedly on the speaker on stage.

 

\--

 

Philipp doesn’t call Micha after the reception is done, of course he doesn’t. Instead he does the sensible thing, which is stare at a wall and wonder why exactly he _wants_ to call him.

Sometimes he also stares at the blinking cursor in the text window on his phone or at Micha’s instagram profile, Philipp is flexible like that.

He decides that his rather recent retirement is at fault. He’ll admit to himself that he still spent at least a thought a day on Micha the last years, but he never thought about what it would be like when he wasn’t a step above Micha anymore - still captaining, still winning, still favoured, still playing.

It’s good that he made retirement his own decision and he certainly isn’t going to get all teary-eyed about it. However, when it’s done, you end up irrevocably stuck somewhere between writing a tell-all book about Guardiola’s Barcelona pyjamas or letting it eat you from the inside out.

Philipp is hoping for a comfortable middle ground option, where he cleans up with his past and the people he met and still has actually interesting stories left when he’s sixty-three and golfing.

Getting to the point, though, cutting through all this pretentious bullshit -- his single biggest regret?  
Never having been able to convince Micha that Philipp was right, and that Micha was always, inevitably in the wrong.

It had been more of a distant thought the last couple of years, because _Micha_ had been a distant thought. But their impromptu meeting the other day brought that back to the surface for Philipp, along with all sorts of confusing feelings.

Maybe Philipp visits the Bayern training the Monday after the reception to clear his mind. Maybe he just wants to check up on things. It causes a great hullo either way, but what sticks with Philipp is Jérôme’s more calm appearance when the group hug is already dissolving.

“Do you watch ESPN at all?” Jérôme asks out of the blue, but pointedly casually after greeting Philipp.

“Uhm, not really, no. You know I usually watch Sky.”

“Right. Good.”

“What, why?” Philipp asks and frowns.

Jérôme rubs his neck, shifting uncomfortably. “Oh, nothing. Nothing important.”

Philipp sends a stern look across and even though he isn’t captain anymore, it still works in ten of ten cases.

“Ballack, he - he talked about his injury on air,” Jérôme explains.

“ _Ballack_? Where did you even hear -” Philipp interrupts himself. Of course he knows. Jérôme tends to be quiet, but if anybody has all the information (all of it, yes, even that), it’s him. “Never mind. What did he say?”

Jérôme shrugs. “He didn’t mention you at all.”

“Uh. Okay.”

“He said something about twisting his ankle while jogging.”

“Okay,” Philipp repeats slowly. It was kind of obvious why Micha would think that story suits TV better than the real one. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I figured you’d want to know about the people you go around hitting with your car.”

“I did _not_ hit Micha with my car!” Philipp repeats for the thousandth time, slipping into a louder volume than intended, so some of the guys on the training pitch turn heads to look their way.

“You almost hit him,” Jérôme says with the nonchalance of somebody who thinks almost murder and murder are probably basically the same thing. “And I know another thing that might interest you.”

Philipp uses patented captain look #45 to make sure Jérôme doesn’t dare to keep him in suspense.

“Ballack is still in Munich.”

“What? You said he was on ESPN.”

“Via live connection, duh,” Jérôme says. He makes the face the younger ones get whenever Philipp makes the risk to use the word Google. “He’s doing some ARD interviews for the World Cup or something.”

“And how on Earth do you know that?”

“Eh,” Jérôme says mysteriously, winks at Philipp and then jogs away as Lewy yells to pair up with him for a warm-up exercise.

As soon as he can, Philipp calls in some favours and intimidates some interns to find out where to catch Micha exactly, and it seems like an awesome idea right until he’s standing in front of a dressing room door that has BALLACK taped on it and he realises how dreadfully predictable he must be to end up here.

Philipp hesitantly knocks twice and announces, “Hello, it’s me.”

He swears he can hear a resigned sigh before the door opens.

“Tell me,” Micha says without hello, “how does one get rid of you?”

Philipp stares for a second as he realises he hasn’t come up with any excuse for this.

“I’m here for… insurance purposes,” he says finally, which he figures is at least in character.

“Insurance. Purposes,” Micha repeats slowly. He’s wearing a grey wool sweater over a white shirt and sporting a well groomed three-day stubble. He looks good, Philipp has to admit, it almost distracts from the medical support boot he’s wearing on one foot.

“I didn’t see you again at the reception, but I am after all somewhat responsible for the accident, even if I was nowhere close to hitting you. So I’d like to clear that up.”

“You could have sent a mail,” Micha says dryly, but he steps aside to first send the assitant that was with him away and to then let Philipp into the room.

“I haven’t thanked you for your help,” Micha continues and ponderously sits down at the table. There’s another free chair, but Micha doesn’t offer the seat to Philipp.

“You have,” Philipp replies, because it’s true and god, how he loves disagreeing.

Micha sighs and starts fiddling with a stack of paper in front of him, probably a print of the interview questions.

“What do you want, Philipp? And don’t tell me about insurance.”

”I’ve retired last summer,” Philipp says, and when Micha glances up at him quickly but piercingly, he sees how much that apparently explains about what Philipp wants, about why he’s here.

”I know.”

”You didn’t. You know. Acknowledge it.”

”And you looked through all my interviews,” Micha replies, a hint of triumph in his voice. There’s also the faintest shadow of a smirk on his face, and Philipp relaxes a little. “You really want to hear me talk about you?”

Micha has done fuck-all to deserve the answer to that one.

”I’m not continuing at Bayern. Not directly at least,” Philipp says. They’re speaking in two different conversations here, but they’ve got practice at that.

“You’re stupid not to,” Micha says in an impressively neutral voice, leaning back in his chair.

“You’re a pundit.”

Philipp doesn’t know why he says _that_ , and it’s like the director in his head is yelling at him that this line was not in the script.

“Yes,” Micha says cautiously.

“At ESPN.”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Micha’s eyes narrow, then he starts shaking his head. “Oh. Oh no. No. They asked you?”

“Well, no,” Philipp admits, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “But I don’t think any network would decline. I figure it’s something I could be good at.”

Micha grimaces like he doubts and fears it at the same time. Philipp is pretty sure that Micha has heard him wrestle with the English language before - Philipp didn’t win.

“Think about it,” Philipp says, and Micha laughs unbelievingly.

“Dream on. I’m sure ARD is going to call you in next. Have you changed your opinion about going into coaching?”

“No, thanks. Jogi is doing a good job, always has.”

Suprisingly, Micha doesn’t accept this quite obvious challenge. Perhaps he’s more mature than Philipp would have trusted him to be after all.

“There are other teams than Bayern and the national team,” Micha states instead.

“I don’t know. Are there?”

Micha laughs again. It sounds a bit frustrated now.

“I don’t get you, Philipp.” And Philipp doesn’t know what to reply to that.

Micha gets up from his chair and grabs the stack of printed paper.

“I have to get ready for the interviews,” he says and Philipp watches him walk to the door (quickly but a tad unevenly due to the medical boot) and open it.

Philipp isn’t disappointed that the conversation is over. It’s probably better to put a timer on it anyway. With horror, however, he realises that he had fun and that Micha was partly responsible for it, making retirement feel familiar.

“I’m sorry I was so,” Philipp says and waves his hand in lieu of an actual adjective. He turns back again when he’s standing outside of the threshold. “Thanks for the talk.”

Micha gets that look again, the same one he had on the staircase at the reception. It’s gone before Philipp can read into the mixture of resignation and wonder in it.

“Have a nice day,” Micha says and closes the door in Philipp’s face.

The next day, Philipp gets a text from an unknown number that says, “u kno u wnt it” with a wall of Stars and Stripes emojis, and he would be concerned if he didn’t make Basti confirm that it was Alexi Lalas’ number.

 

\--

 

Micha adds Philipp in a tweet.

“ _Well done @JoshuaKimmich_ _growing up to be the next @philipplahm #butwithgoals #MiaSanMia #BSCFCB_ ,” it says in his obnoxious writing style, drawing in a good three hundred retweets.

It seems like the most irrelevant thing ever, if not for the fact that despite numerous Bayern livetweets, he had never mentioned Philipp on twitter before, ever.

Old man is getting soft, Philipp thinks and puts a like on it. A year ago that alone would have been worth a front page headline in Sport-Bild, so Philipp is counting the perks of retirement.

Beyond this quip though, he is weirdly intrigued that he can see both their orbits converging, even if he’s not usually one for cosmic metaphors.

Philipp sends Micha a text in retaliation, not thinking about it at length before doing it this time.

 _I HAVE scored goals_ , he writes and Micha reads the message approximately forty-three hours later (or that’s when he opens it, anyway - Philipp is pretty certain he’s read it before then.)

Micha replies with a photo of his legs crossed at the ankles, without medical boot, in a room that Philipp recognises as the office of Dr Müller-Wohlfahrt. Just that, a photo.

So Micha is back in Munich again. While Philipp knows this is a coincidence, he still subconciously waits for Micha to ring his doorbell and drop in unannounced, because that’s what Philipp did to him, right? Eye for an eye, or casual acquaintanceship, whichever.

Instead, it’s Arne who drops in without warning, one day before the national team friendly.

Only via Skype, but guess what, it’s still Micha’s fault.

“Micha has called me - I repeat, called me on the phone - to ask me why you are acting strange,” Arne says, looking a little scandalized over the rim of the mug of tea he’s holding.

“Did he specify?” Philipp asks with genuine interest, which doesn’t appear to be the reaction Arne expected.

“ _Specify?_ There’s more than your newfound road rage?”

“I didn’t hit-” Philipp starts out of reflex, but there’s no point in repeating that over and over again. “I met up with him and had a nice chat. Perhaps that’s a foreign concept to him.”

Arne puts down his tea mug and mimes a phone. “Oh hey, can you believe who’s calling?”

Philipp sighs. “Who is it?”

“That’s 2010. It wants its rivalry back,” Arne replies, and Philipp is close to hitting his head against the computer screen.

“No, listen, it was fine, Micha was fine with it. He was probably just surprised that I talked some nonsense about going into punditry.”

“To annoy him.”

Philipp grimaces, furrows his brows. Arne definitely isn’t wrong, but he’s not completely right either.

“Seriously,” Arne continues, “Open a restaurant, act in a movie, do some questionable product endorsements, invest more in your companies, whatever you want. There’s no time like retirement! Just leave Micha alone. Let it go.”

“I can’t,” Philipp says with more whining in his voice than he intended to be there.

“Come on. After you had the armband you didn’t give a rat’s ass about Micha anymore - how has that suddenly changed because you’ve stopped playing football?”

Philipp stares at his hands for a moment, then he looks back up. “That’s not true.”

“What?”

“I thought about Micha quite often in the past.”

Arne huffs and nips on his mug, eyes never leaving Philipp. It seems like an eternity, but then Arne’s eyes suddenly grow wide and he starts coughing into his shirt sleeve because he’s choking on the tea. Skype is overwhelmed with the sudden movement and Arne turns into a burst of colorful pixels on screen.

“Are you okay?” Philipp asks, as Arne wheezes.

“Are _you_ fucking kidding me,” Arne says between coughs. “You’re into him. You’re really into him.”

“What?” Philipp replies, only a damning bit too late as his thoughts come to a halt.

“Micha this, Micha that, Micha here, Micha there. I can’t believe it. Wow.”

“That’s-” But instead of immediately objecting, Philipp thinks twice, takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “A strange conclusion.”

Arne tilts his head and raises his eyebrows. “You’re not denying it.”

“It - it explains a lot,” Philipp replies, frowning.

Arne stares at him.

“I swear, you have the weirdest reactions to things. I figure out you want to bang Micha and all you say is, ‘well, that makes sense.’”

“I never said I want to... sleep with Micha.”

“Do you?”

Philipp squints and tries to envision it. Not even sex, just - the concept of Micha as a real person, behind the tournaments and armbands and passive-aggressive statements into microphones that he’s buried him under.

He thinks of Micha as he looked when they met last time. _Older_ and _stubborn_ are words that come to mind, but Philipp is no hypocrite. It takes a long fight to force the word into his thoughts, but - God, who is he trying to convince? _Handsome_. Objectively.

“Oh Lord,” he hears Arne say, into the long silence after his question. “I guess that answers that.”

There’s another silence during which Arne drinks from his mug again, and Philipp stares into the distance glassy-eyed.

“Retirement is underrated,” Philipp says finally. “Does everyone realise so much stuff once they retire?”

“Uhm, not really? I realised I can hang out with Per whenever I want to. Match schedules can suck it.”

“Huh?”

“Forget I said that. When - I mean,” Arne starts and stops. “Do you think you’ve always -”

“Maybe, I don’t know.”

Is this the sort of things you should discuss via Skype? Probably not.

“But, like, eight years ago or whenever, you thought about it?”

“If I had thought about it, I wouldn’t have been surprised,” Philipp points out, buries his head in his hands and groans. But even this logical argument doesn’t appease Arne.

“I’m not asking about shower fantasies! But you must have been… interested,” Arne says and pronounces the word ‘interested’ in the conspirative voice of a teenager.

“It’s not that easy,” Philipp says through his fingers.

“Fips.”

“I, uh, definitely wanted who he _was_ , leadership and captaincy and all those big words. Maybe I wanted or wondered... ” Philipp trails off and shrugs. He remembers thinking about someone taller, broader shoulders, determined smirk. But that could be a lot of people, if you’re making sure not to think too hard about it. “It’s like football, isn’t it? All about the power struggle. So - I don’t know.”

“I can believe that’s how you’d compare sex to football. Those words out of your mouth.” Arne raises his eyebrows and a grin spreads across his cheeks. “Philipp Lahm wants to screw Michael Ballack,” he says slowly like he’s savouring this knowledge, shaking his head.

Philipp gives a benevolent nod to save face, acting like he’s completely relaxed about everything, while the wheels are turning in his head.

“What are you going to tell Micha?”

“Oh, right,” Arne replies more seriously. “I think he just wanted to rant. He won’t expect me to question you and report back. He’s got his own shit to work through, I guess.”

Philipp only notices that the last sentence is a bit of a weird thing to say, when Arne and him have already ended the call (and he had promised to keep Arne updated). But he’s probably just overthinking things now.

He figures the correct reaction right now would be to freak out, but he doesn’t feel like that at all.

Mostly, he’s a irritated that it took Arne to make him confront something that should be obvious to him. Disappointed, perhaps, that he’d be attracted to Micha - _of all people_ \- and that Micha and he can’t seem to get rid of each other no matter how hard they try. The words _meant to be_ come to mind with a distorted meaning, but Philipp swallows them quickly.

He wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t run into Micha before the reception. It’s one of those pesky hypothetical questions that he’s always found pointless.

What if he had not won the World Cup in the summer of ‘14, what if he had won the Champions League in his last season? What if he never tells Micha?

It’s useless to worry over things that are already decided.

Philipp sends Micha a photo of his lunch, because apparently acting strange is what gets Micha’s attention, and Micha types for minutes, before he sends back a simple text.

_At the stadium tomorrow?_

_Yes,_ Philipp replies, as he assumes that’s what Micha is asking. It’s a home game, so it’s a comparatively short drive there, and in a weak moment he had promised Manu and Thomas to come see the team play one of their last matches before the World Cup.

_See you then_

Philipp puts his phone face-down on the table. Well, that was going to be quicker than expected.

 

\--

 

When he arrives at the stadium, Philipp is led right into the hallway in front of Germany’s locker room, and for a second he almost believes Jogi might be desperate enough to pull a jersey over his head, shove him onto the pitch without warning and try to sell him as a 17-year-old wonderkid newcomer.

Thomas makes the same joke when he walks out of the locker room and sees Philipp leaning against the wall.

“And you come crawling back to us!” he accuses Philipp with a huge smile on his face.

“You invited me,” Philipp reminds him, but Thomas waves it off.

“To save you from the humiliation of having to admit it.”

Philipp laughs, but the laughter sort of gets stuck in his throat when he sees Micha walking towards them, led by someone from the DFB staff.

The same staff person steers them both into position for the apparently planned photo op without a word and then goes to get Manu, as Philipp and Micha somewhat sheepishly look on and Thomas snickers.

“Hello Micha,” Philipp says and offers his hand. Micha looks at Philipp, then at Thomas, then he takes the hand and pulls Philipp in closer.

They end up hugging, and it makes sense that it feels foreign for how long they haven’t done it. It definitely last shorter than any average hug, but it seems longer by a stretch as Micha’s hand rests in Philipp’s hair.

Philipp is short, so he’s used to people putting their hands on his head more often than he likes, patting him like a well-behaved child, and Micha had been no exception. Now, though, that Philipp knows why it feels like pins and needles, he leans into it.

They separate just in time for Manu and the staff member to come back. Manu, obviously wearing the captain’s armband, tries to look stoic, but Philipp can see him radiating.

“Glad you could make it,” Manu says pleased, probably at both of them, and claps his gloved hands together.

The three of them are made to line up for the obligatory social media photos: Manu between Micha and Philipp, arms around both their shoulders and armband tucked into proper position. Someone will type out a line for twitter in a minute, something like _From one captain to another…_ and the moment is over before Philipp notices anybody releasing the shutter.

Manu claps again and Philipp wishes him a good match, then Manu and Thomas leave to line up with their mascots.

Micha and Philipp stay behind to give out high-fives to the rest of the players in the locker room. Philipp feels weirdly uninvolved, even more so than during the Euros when he was at least still playing in the league. While he’d never turn back on his decision to retire, he’s sure that he’ll miss screaming at someone at halftime as soon as summer and the World Cup come around.

Philipp hasn’t seen many of the guys in a longer time and there’s a number of younger ones he’s never talked to even once. He doesn’t quite feel at home here anymore, but that’s a good thing. He can tell it’s the same for Micha, which is probably not surprising, considering Micha had a forced head start to this whole retirement business.

Jérôme gets up as one of the last people, holding his hand over his mouth and saying something to Süle who’s walking out next to him. It looks like Jérôme knows something about Philipp that he himself doesn’t even know yet.

In light of the conversation they had some time ago, Philipp isn’t sure whether he should be worried or hopeful about that, and a glance at Micha doesn’t help.

“We’re not going to win the World Cup,” Micha says matter-of-factly when every last player has left the room and the two of them are still standing around in the middle of it for some reason.

“Ever optimistic, are you,” Philipp replies. This is good, because it’s small talk and Micha almost doesn’t look grumpy. “Winning again would be a _bit_ much. But anyway, all you have to do is sit in a chair at ESPN and comment on it.”

“They sold the rights. It’s on Fox.”

Philipp laughs at Micha’s face, openly and genuinely.

“So you’ll have time to come to one of my barbecue parties.”

Micha snorts and turns away, but he doesn’t say no. He looks around in the room, at the mess of discarded clothes, _MÖ_ baseball caps and opened snack packages.

“I realised the other day that I’ve never actually apologized,” Philipp speaks up. “I want to do that now.”

“Oh?” Micha straightens his shoulders and takes a couple of steps towards Philipp.

“About the accident with my car,” Philipp clarifies quickly, and it’s so childish that he can see even Micha bite his lips to hide the laugh.

“I see,” Micha nods. “Hell will freeze over before you…?”

“Yeah. But - but really, sorry about your foot. I didn’t think that would be how we’d meet again.”

“It’s fine,” Micha says generously. “At least you waited until retirement.”

“You said on TV that you injured yourself while jogging,” Philipp says and hurries to add, “I’ve been told.”

Micha frowns and tugs at the collar of the Henley shirt he’s wearing. “Huh? So? What did you want me to say? That it was freewheeling Philipp Lahm on his final tackle?”

Philipp shrugs, because he knows how ridiculous it is to constantly want Micha to acknowledge him and his trace in Micha’s life. Like he had said to Arne - it’s all about the power struggle.

“I’m glad we’re talking again,” Philipp says evasively, because it’s true and to some degree closer to what he actually wants to let Micha know.

“Me too,” Micha says and sighs with the unreadable look back in his eyes. But this time it doesn’t go away and Philipp keeps staring, trying to decipher it and stupidly hoping to find a little of himself mirrored in it.

“I missed it,” Philipp starts, voice a little softer than intended.

Micha stops and tenses at the words, and Philipp swears he can see him close his eyes for a moment.

Then, suddenly, Micha moves again and before Philipp can completely comprehend what’s happening, he pushes Philipp backwards against one of the lockers.

Philipp stumbles and grabs onto Micha’s shirt for support, heart beating like it’s racing towards a finish line. Micha presses Philipp into the remnants of someone’s kit hung up on the wall, but even the hook digging annoyingly into Philipp’s back is forgotten as Micha leans closer, hand flat on Philipp’s chest.

It’s not how Philipp had planned this out, but some plans get thrown out the window once you retire, he has learnt.

Philipp grins up at Micha, who is so close that Philipp is sure the tension between them is about to physically manifest.

“Still want to get rid of me?” Philipp asks, and instead of answering, Micha kisses him.

It’s just a kiss, lips sliding on lips, Micha’s nose bumping into his. A little cliché maybe, when Philipp is surprised at the feeling of Micha’s stubble and the close smell of his aftershave and grips his arm tighter.  
There’s a lot more in that kiss, though, like a taste of the past and the push for a future and a piece of nostalgia Philipp isn’t sure he’s allowed himself to have so far.

When they break apart, Philipp leans his head against Micha’s shoulder and Micha breathes out a shaky, bashful laugh.

”Hey, captain,” Micha addresses him, no context at all and the most defining context at the same time, voice rough on that horrendous dialect of his. It sounds ludicrous the way he says it, like he should be forbidden to ever say it again - and Philipp _wants_.

With hot hands, he pulls Micha down by the collar of his shirt, and Micha makes a surprised sound but recovers quickly. Philipp nudges up so he meets Micha’s mouth again, and Arne was right, holy shit, was he right.

Philipp pays no mind to what an image this would be - two captains of the German national football team making out in an empty locker room that’s not technically theirs anymore. He’s not sure what Jérôme would say about the fact that it’s his locker specifically that Micha is pinning Philipp against.

Micha, however, seems to remember where they are right at that moment and draws away two hand’s width. “Oh God,” he says, but as his eyes flicker around the room, he doesn’t sound upset, more bewildered like this wasn’t exactly his plan either.

Philipp slowly lets go of Micha and slides down to sit on the small bench attached to the locker. His heartbeat is still at least at the level of a Cup semifinal or upwards, and he can’t hide the grin on his face completely.

He is just the tiniest bit masochistically happy that he’s had to wait for this relationship with Micha, that he’s had to grow to earn it and that he’s still the asshole who snatched honour right out of Micha’s hands, even if he’s supposed to be over that.

“We should,” Philipp clears his throat, still feeling the kisses on his lips and the tingle in his hands, but thinking of the others trying to play their best on the pitch. “We should go outside. Watch the game.”

“Right.” Micha throws a look back, like leaving is the last thing he wants to do, then he nods. “Right. Uh. Has it started already?”

Philipp is ashamed to see he’s lost track of time, but a quick check of his phone tells him the match is only five minutes in, still nil-nil.

He makes a show of offering Micha to leave the locker room first, and Micha sighs and pulls Philipp along by his hand.

As they walk through the mostly empty tunnel (Philipp quickly smoothes his shirt when two stewards pass them), Philipp considers telling Micha about Lalas’ text, but generously decides against it. He’ll use it as leverage to make Micha confess how long _he_ has been sitting on this attraction.

“I win,” Micha interrupts Philipp’s train of thought over the somewhat muffled sounds of the ranks above them, and Philipp turns his head in surprise.

“At what?”

“Retirement.”

“Right.” Philipp snorts sarcastically, but he slides his cold hand under the edge of Micha’s shirt and savours the way Micha sucks in air and moves a touch closer, not away. If Micha lets him have this, he’ll return the favour. “You win.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn’t written a run-of-the-mill fic for Micha/Fips yet where I could just make them make out sappily, so I thank Spring Fling for the opportunity. It’s still not the fluff crack I kind of aimed for, but then again what’s this ship without some drama. Handwave-y in regards to a lot of things, but hey, I’m the god of this world. I hope you like it, recip!
> 
> Huge thanks to the mods for organising and to my friends for putting up with me. No thanks at all to Philipp Lahm for retiring.
> 
> catch me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kissthecrest) and on [tumblr](http://lahmly.tumblr.com/).


End file.
